Oh, to See What Uncle Benny Sees

by Sharlyn Guthrie

The phone call announcing Grandma’s death came as unexpectedly as a cold north wind in August. Grief, Death’s cruel step-sister, was of necessity detained.

“Who’ll look after Uncle Benny?” I called, catching up to Daddy.

“We will, of course.” Daddy’s reply fell like a courtroom gavel, firm and final.

~~~~~~~~~

Uncle Benny, the oldest, but most child-like of Daddy’s brothers, lived with Grandma in the small two-story bungalow three blocks from our house. Grandpa had died years earlier, before my birth. I adored my playful, good-natured grandma, but I can’t say I really knew Uncle Benny. He rarely spoke to anyone but himself, and moved constantly about the house grazing walls and furniture with one hand, like a trolley on its cable. His eyes gazed upward, pulling his lips into a slight smile. I once asked if Benny was blind, but Grandma shook her head. “Benny sees so well, he sees things that most of us can’t.” Sometimes I squinted up toward the ceiling, straining to see what glorious sights he beheld.

Uncle Benny meticulously arranged bottles of bubble bath, lotions, and soaps by graduated sizes on the bathroom shelf. I enjoyed moving them around just to see if he’d notice. He was quite astute, returning each to its proper angle and station within minutes of my meddling. Perhaps it was a cruel game, but at least it was an interaction between us.

The most remarkable thing about Uncle Benny, however, was his ability to play the piano. For several hours each day he performed songs that were his alone. His limber fingers waltzed effortlessly over the keys as his upturned head wagged back and forth. His music delighted Grandma and her frequent visitors.

~~~~~~~~

The phone call sent Daddy and I racing the three blocks to Grandma’s house. We found Uncle Benny talking loudly into his flapping hands, while a neighbor attempted to soothe him. Uncle Benny had pounded on her door and led her back to the chair where Grandma still slumped over her open Bible. Daddy probably wouldn’t have taken me along if he’d been thinking straight. The scene was at once alarming and reassuring. It changed me in ways that only death and real life can.

Daddy made some phone calls, and then turned to his brother. “Benny, you know where Mom went, right?”

Silence.

“She’s not coming back, Benny. That’s just mom’s body in there –an empty shell. She was just sitting there talking to Jesus this morning, and I guess He told her to come on up and join Him and Dad. That must have been an invitation she couldn’t refuse. I sure wish I could see her now. She’s in Heaven, Benny.” Benny still stared into his hands, but calm had settled over him like a cool, swelling shadow. “I wonder what the party is like. Do you think they’re dancing, Benny? The angels and Mom and Dad –they must be having a grand time. Mom will be telling them whether the music is good or not, just the way she always told you.”

“Oh Benny, I miss her, too. I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but we will.”
Daddy didn’t see me poking my nose around the doorframe. He and Benny were locked in an embrace, tears streaming down both of their faces.

The doorbell rang, and the coroner entered to validate what we already knew. He was followed by the funeral director, who carted Grandma’s shell out the front door and into a hearse.

Daddy chose to stay with Uncle Benny at Grandma’s house while making plans for the funeral, believing that gradual change might be easier for all of us. By the day of the funeral, Grief had arrived, along with many sorrowful relatives.

The service was solemn, unlike the rollicking Grandma I remembered. Soothing scriptures and details of Grandma’s well-lived life were unfolded slowly, thoughtfully. Friends and relatives dabbed with tissues at the corners of their eyes. After the benediction was read, Uncle Benny rose and strode to the piano.

We shifted uneasily in our seats, uncertain what to expect. Then, from the piano wafted Uncle Benny’s newly composed song –the sound of angel wings. It straightened our shoulders and lifted our chins. It drew our eyes upward, and our lips into a smile, like his. Tears of joy flowed freely down our cheeks. And for once I saw what Uncle Benny saw –a vision of Heaven so warm and welcoming I envied my Grandma and Grandpa who surely were dancing there.




I wrote this story for the Faithwriters challenge for the topic "uncle." Although it is fiction, it is based on my memories of some very special students I worked with many years ago, and their wonderful families who knew they were blessed to be entrusted with their care.

Sherri Ward at A Candid Thought is hosting Fiction Friday today.

Heaven Must Be In Me

I am very late joining “In Other Words” this week, which is a Tuesday meme, hosted this week at Shorty Bear’s Place blog. Visit her blog for more discussion on the quote below.





The quote for this week is this:

"Heaven must be in me, before I can be
in heaven."
~ Charles Stanford

What a profound and poetic quote! It immediately brings this verse to mind:

“For our citizenship is in Heaven, from which also we eagerly wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” Philippians 3:20

The verses leading up to this one speak of walking according to a godly standard, rather than the pattern of this world. If my citizenship is in heaven, then I will not be at home in this world. Instead, my identity will be in the Lord Jesus Christ, and I will eagerly wait for Him to return to take me to my heavenly home. It will affect everything I am; everything I think; everything I do.

Like Charles Stanford I believe that I should walk every day on this earth with heaven in my heart, like a bride longing to take up residence with her bridegroom; otherwise I will be tempted to live as if I belong to this world.

Chapter eleven of Hebrews makes an even stronger case for heavenly-mindedness, relating it directly to faith. Following the long list of old testament believers who were recognized for their acts of faith, verses 13, 14, and 15 say this:

“All these died in faith, without receiving the promises, but having seen them, and having welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a country of their own....but as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; for He has prepared a city for them.”

What a legacy these Old Testament believers left for our consideration! It is one that I desire, as well. When I die I hope that those who knew me well on this earth will say, “She never lived as if she was comfortable here. She was always seeking a better country, a heavenly one. Surely God was her God.”

Lord, I am a stranger and an exile in this world. Help me to love you wholly; to treasure the things that have eternal value; and to live each day as a citizen of heaven so that you will never be ashamed to be called my God.

(all scriptures quoted are from the NASV Bible)

May I Have This Dance?

I am once again participating in Fiction Friday, although technically, my story isn’t fiction. I chose to share this story about my mother-in-law, Lillian Guthrie, who went to be with Jesus two years ago this week. I have been thinking of her this week, and thought this would be a way to honor her. Pease visit Patty Wysong’s blog, Patty’s Patterings, for more great fiction.


May I Have This Dance?

We regarded each other from opposite sides of the table: I through blue-tinted contacts, and she through the upper portion of her bifocals. “I’m taking my two favorite women to dinner,” her son had informed us on that first Valentines Day. It wasn’t exactly the dream date I had anticipated, but there we were, nevertheless.

Although she had left her fifth grade classroom hours before, a commanding presence accompanied his mother to dinner. She was, and would always be a teacher. That was my first lesson.

Soon after our triangular date, Lillian approached her son. “Isn’t it about time you asked that girl to marry you?” And so he did; partly, I’m sure, because it would have been harder to tell her no.

Despite her clarity on most matters, our early relationship resembled the shuffle. Both a little uncertain of our place and position, we mainly tried to avoid stepping on each others’ toes. Like the opposite sides of the table we initially occupied, we often took opposite sides of an issue. She liked large, bold prints, while I enjoyed floral pastels. She preferred the curtains drawn. I preferred no curtains at all. My idea of a perfect Saturday was sleeping until eight o’clock and drinking coffee until ten; hers was rising at dawn’s first light and immediately tackling a huge task.

As time went on, we settled into an easy two-step; each taking our turn to advance and retreat. I came to appreciate Lillian’s sense of humor, if not her fashion sense; her industry, if not her incessant instruction. She tolerated my laid-back approach to parenting and daily living, which was so unlike her own. I began seeking little ways to please her, such as placing fresh flowers on her nightstand when she came to visit. She often pleased me by making my favorite dish, her potato salad, when we visited her home. At our house she allowed us to sleep. At her house, we all arose early to the aroma of waffles and syrup.

Our two-step evolved into the swing as we warmed up to one another and began discovering things in common. Like her, I became a classroom teacher. We both enjoyed writing poetry, playing piano, and growing flowers. She delighted in her grandchildren and, of course, I was pretty fond of them myself. We also shared a strong faith in Jesus Christ, and she taught me much about expressing and respecting our differences in regards to faith. Once, I discovered her pink Romantic England dishes, and threw a spontaneous tea party in her honor. She saved coleus slips in the fall and presented them to me at planting time the following spring.

I don’t wish to be misleading. Lillian and I faltered and even stumbled at times during our thirty-two year dance. She was quite generous with her opinions. I stubbornly clung to my own. Although I looked forward to her visits, I was usually relieved when she left. When circumstances brought her to our home to stay, we sadly discovered, but all agreed, that a joint living arrangement wasn’t going to work well for any of us. She moved into a residential care center, leaving behind her Romantic England dishes because she knew I would use and treasure them.

A year ago I sat by Lillian’s hospital bed holding her feeble, ninety-one year old hand. “I worry sometimes that I haven’t done enough,” she whispered. “I’ve tried to love God and do good things, but I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

“You could never do enough,” I replied. “That’s why Jesus did it all, so you wouldn’t have to. All He wants is your love, and your love for Him has always been evident to me.”

She relaxed then and gave my hand a weak squeeze. “You’ve been the best daughter-in-law I could have hoped for.” I kissed her on the cheek, sensing correctly that our final waltz was over.

Not long afterward, my husband and I spent a week with our son and his girlfriend. She and I had some lovely conversation as we sat side by side on the beach. As our week came to a close I pulled my son aside and asked, “When are you going to ask that girl to marry you?”

And so, one month later, he did.